The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (2 page)

Masuto bent over the body, turned back the sheet, and stared for a moment or two at Gaycheck's face.

“Twenty-two,” Beckman said.

“Close. Those are powder burns.”

“Twenty-two short,” Beckman said. “One of those little-bitsy guns. Ladies' purse gun.”

“That's a brilliant deduction,” Masuto said sourly.

At that moment, Dr. Sam Baxter, the medical examiner, entered the back room, rubbing his hands cheerfully and demanding to know where the corpse was. His question remained unanswered. He grinned, took out his glasses and polished them, then knelt by the body.

“He's a damn freak,” Beckman said.

“Dead. Instantaneous. Bullet in the brain. Twenty-two caliber, I think, but I can't be sure until I dig it out.”

“We didn't know he was dead,” Beckman said.

Ronald Haber, the dead man's assistant, a man of about thirty, usually pasty-faced and even pastier now, came out of the bathroom, looked at the body, and did a quick about-face. The sound of him puking came through the closed door.

“Any other wounds?” Masuto asked.

“One was enough.” Baxter pulled off the sheet. “Clean as a whistle. Didn't even disturb the handkerchief in his coat pocket. The man's surprised. The lady smiled at him, put her little gun in his face, and poof!”

“Why a lady?”

“Little gun, little lady.”

“Brilliant,” Masuto agreed moodily. “You should be a cop. When did it happen, Sam?”

“What time is it now?”

“Just three.”

The doctor patted Gaycheck's cheeks and bent one of his arms. “Two hours ago — give or take a few minutes.”

“Can we take it away, or are we on permanent assignment here?” one of the ambulance attendants demanded. “You know, there might just be a live one waiting for the wagon.”

“Empty his pockets first,” Masuto told Beckman.

Beckman emptied Gaycheck's pockets, piling change, bills, wallet, and keys on the display case. The attendants covered the body, lifted it onto a stretcher, and rolled it out. The assistant came out of the bathroom and stood in front of the bathroom door, shaking. Dr. Baxter picked up his black bag and left with a cheerful goodbye. Sweeney then entered.

“You want prints?” he asked Masuto aggressively.

Masuto shrugged.

“You lift a guy's spirits, Masao. You sure as hell do. You make him feel nice and secure in his job.”

“Oh, go ahead and dust the place.” Masuto sighed.

“Thanks.”

Masuto turned to Officer Cutler and asked him who had found the body and who had called him. Cutler pointed to Haber.

“That one.”

“Who's outside?” Masuto asked.

“Jackson.”

“He can take off. I want you outside until we lock up and seal off.”

“Right.”

“And you answer no questions. None. No crowds. If the media come, shunt them over to the captain. No one gets inside. Fill in the captain on what we know, which is nothing. Throw the latch on the door and lock it behind you, and knock if you want back in.”

Officer Cutler nodded and left. Masuto turned to Haber. “How do you feel?”

“Better now — I think.”

“Would you like to sit down?” There was a small desk and a chair in one corner of the back room.

“Funny, there isn't even a bloodstain,” Haber said, staring at the carpet.

“No. The bullet remained in his brain or in the back of the skull. Then, whoever shot him caught his body and eased it down. Very cool.” Masuto glanced at Beckman and smiled slightly.

“How do you know?” Beckman demanded.

“The way the body was. No one dies and falls that way — on his back, laid out. No way. No, indeed.”

“So it wasn't a dame.”

“A strong, cool woman — who knows? You found the body?” he asked Haber. The assistant nodded. “Tell me about it,” Masuto said.

“I leave for lunch at twelve-thirty. One hour. Mr. Gaycheck leaves — I mean he would have left, he usually left when I returned. He always had a two o'clock sitting reserved at Scandia. He would return about three-thirty, but if he had an appointment with a customer maybe earlier. I shouldn't say customer. He always insisted on the word
client
. I guess it doesn't matter now.”

“No, it doesn't. Did he have an appointment today?”

“I don't think so. You can look at his appointment book.”

“Where is it?”

Haber pointed to the desk, and Beckman walked over and picked up a leather-bound log book. He opened it and showed it to Masuto. For this day, nothing except two scrawled letters —
P
and
M
. Masuto held out the book to Haber.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“PM — afternoon, I guess.”

“He knew it was the afternoon,” Beckman said.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Masuto riffled through the pages of the log. Dates, names, prices — no other notation of PM.

“He said nothing to you about any appointment today? Expecting someone?”

Haber shook his head.

“You went to lunch — where?”

“At Juniors. I had a corned-beef sandwich …”

“All right. What time did you return?”

“One-thirty. Exactly.”

“Exactly?” Masuto raised an eyebrow.

“I am a precise person.”

“Go on.”

“I went in. No one in front. I came back here, and …” He spread his hands. “That's it. I saw him on the floor, dead. I called the police. Then I called an ambulance.”

“How did you know he was dead?” Beckman snapped.

Masuto shook his head, and Haber began to blubber that nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

“All right,” Masuto said, not unkindly. “You called the police. What then?”

“I was in front. I couldn't stay there.”

“No one else came into the shop before the police?”

He shook his head. “We don't have many customers — clients — off the street. Mostly by appointment. But what I don't understand is, why didn't anyone hear the shot?”

“A twenty-two don't make that much noise,” said Beckman. “There was two doors between here and the street. But if he took him in here, it must have been somebody he knew.”

Masuto stared at Haber, who was frowning.

“Well?” Masuto demanded.

“I guess so,” Haber agreed.

“Who?” demanded Beckman.

Haber shook his head. Masuto motioned toward the cases. “Was anything taken — stolen — or sold, or removed?”

“I didn't look.”

“Well, look now.”

While Haber brooded over the display cases and Sweeney finished his fingerprint work, Masuto called Captain Wainwright at headquarters. Wainwright was upset. “Now just hear me, Masao,” he said. “This is not East Los Angeles. When a store is ripped off in one of the streets north of Wilshire and the owner is shot, it means every damn one of them will be breathing down my neck, the chief, the city manager, the mayor, and maybe fifty prominent citizens — and this is not a place without prominent citizens.…”

Haber stood in front of Masuto, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he said.

“It doesn't appear to be robbery,” Masuto told Wainwright. “At least not yet. Just a clean, neat murder.” He put down the phone. “How sure are you?” he asked Haber.

“I know the contents of the cases. Anyway, they're all locked.”

“Where is the key?”

Haber pointed to the small pile of stuff from Gaycheck's pockets. Sweeney packed his stuff away, grinning at Masuto.

“Nice prints, very nice prints. Nothing like a print on glass. You don't have the murder weapon?” he asked Masuto hopefully.

Masuto shook his head. He was going through the contents of Gaycheck's pockets. “This key?” he asked Haber. Haber nodded.

“The trouble with you,” Sweeney said, “is that you got no faith in Western technology.”

“Opens all the cases?” Masuto asked.

“All of them.”

“Technology,” Sweeney repeated, and then left.

“That man,” said Beckman, “gives me a pain in the ass. He draws down eighteen thousand a year, and I never known his goddamn fingerprints to give us anything.”

“How valuable is the stuff in the cases?” Masuto asked Haber.

“All of it? I don't know — maybe twenty, twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“That's very interesting,” Beckman said. “When his place was ripped off last June, he claimed a loss of twenty-two grand — it was twenty-two, wasn't it, Masao?”

“It was. One case smashed and emptied.” He looked at Haber thoughtfully.

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Now those,” said Masuto, pointing to a set of American stamps in the glass case, “what are they worth?”

“That's a complete set of the TransMississippi Exposition, 1898, mint — a very nice set.”

“Mint?”

“That means they're uncanceled, never been used for postage. In U.S. stamps, we deal only in mint, except for the very first issues. This set, well, it's very nice. We could get almost two thousand for it.”

“Are there fences for stamps?” Beckman demanded.

“Fences?”

“People who buy stolen stamps,” Masuto explained.

Haber hesitated. “I suppose so.”

“And what might they pay for such a set?”

“There's really no way to identify mint stamps. I suppose a thief could sell these to a dealer in some other city for at least seven or eight hundred dollars.”

“Why some other city?”

“Because if they were stolen, we'd circulate the information here in L. A. and dealers would be looking for them.”

“And you're absolutely sure there's nothing missing from the cases?”

“I'm sure.”

“Do you have the combination for the safe?”

“No, sir.”

“Who has it?”

“Mr. Gaycheck.”

“Where? Where did he keep it?”

“In his head, when he was alive.”

“He must have written it down somewhere,” Masuto insisted.

“No.”

“How long have you worked here, Mr. Haber?”

“Five years — since Mr. Gaycheck opened the store.”

“And all the times he opened the safe in those five years, you never caught the combination?”

“No, sir.”

“Bullshit!” said Beckman.

“No, sir …” Haber began to shake again. “Because Mr. Gaycheck was a very careful man. He never opened the safe without blocking the view with his body.”

“What did he keep in the safe?” Masuto asked.

“Any cash over fifty dollars. Also some bearer bonds of his own — I don't know how much. And if we had a very valuable stamp, he would put it in the safe.”

“Like what?” Beckman snapped.

“Well, last week we had a ten-cent black 1847 George Washington. It was in fine condition and any collector would pay three thousand for it. He put that in the safe.”

“Is it in there now?”

“No. We took it on commission from Holmbey's, downtown. The sale didn't come through and I brought it back yesterday. Are you going to arrest me?”

“For what?”

“Well — Mr. Gaycheck was murdered.”

“Did you murder him?” Masuto asked gently.

“Good God, no!” Haber burst out. “Murder him? I never fired a gun in my life. I wouldn't know how. I have a bad back, so I was never even inducted.”

“Then we won't arrest you, Mr. Haber.” Masuto smiled. “Did Gaycheck have a wife, children, relatives? Have you notified anyone?”

“No, sir. He wasn't married. No one. He would mention that, no relatives, no family.”

“Friends?”

“None that I knew of. He would have lunch occasionally with some of the other dealers or with a client. That was business.”

“How old was he?” Masuto asked, going through the wallet now. An American Express card, a Bank-Americard, a two-by-three photograph, but no driver's license.

“I don't know,” Haber answered slowly. “I never asked him.”

“Did he drive a car?”

“No. He has a small condominium on Burton Way. He either walked or used a cab.”

“There's one hundred and three dollars here in his wallet. I want you to count it.”

Haber's hand shook as he counted the money.

“These keys. For the shop and the apartment?”

Haber nodded.

“This key?” It was a third door key.

“This is the shop key,” Haber said. “I suppose one of the others is his apartment.”

“And the third key?”

“I don't know.”

“No safe-deposit key. Did he have a box?”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“All right. Give your address and telephone number to Detective Beckman. Then you can go home. But for the time being, I don't want you to leave the county.”

“What about the store?”

“The store will be sealed until we can have the safe opened and examine its contents. The rest is up to the legal department at City Hall. Detective Beckman will give you a number you can call for information.”

While Beckman took down Haber's address and phone number and ushered him out of the store, Masuto studied the photograph he had found in Gaycheck's wallet. It was a picture, head and shoulders, of a young woman, no older than twenty-five, no younger than twenty. Straight blond hair, two buttons open on the blouse, good-looking, and not unlike any one of several hundred girls to be seen any day on the streets of West Hollywood. He was still staring at it when Beckman returned.

“Sy,” Masuto said, “take the keys and the wallet and check them into the property department. I'm hanging on to this photo, so make a note of that. When you get back to the station, you can start to type out the report. I'll talk to the captain and I'll fill you in if there's anything.”